


Fuckin' Mine Boyo

by PeetaPan



Category: Frontier (TV), Frontier - Fandom
Genre: Frontier, M/M, also im pretty sure im the first to write for this fandom, completely unbeta'd, fucking like there's no tomorrow, i ship everyone in that show gotdamn, imagine please Jason Mamoa and Landon Liboiron, ngl I wrote this completely drunk, so please mssg me about typos, the netflix series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9499853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeetaPan/pseuds/PeetaPan
Summary: Declan Harp's reflections on Michael Smyth. HELLA NSFW





	

Michael reminded him of himself, that was certain. But it was more than that. Something strange. Something Declan had never felt before. It was intense, like the burst of copper across the tongue in the midst of a battle. It scorched his veins, something he’d not felt since….

Why? Declan asked himself. Why this _child?_ But with each passing day, Declan could no longer qualify Michael as a child. He grew with an alarming certainty, embracing each aspect of frontier life that Declan challenged. Michael thrived, that much was certain. But it leeched into Declan’s chest like a warm summer’s day. The boy’s vibrant, lovely eyes. Blue like a cold, clear creek. His pale skin and raven hair. Declan grew disgusted with the poetic terms he would find to describe Michael. Yet he could not help but wonder….

That pale flesh. Would it grow pink worried under the tongue? Would his pulse jump? Would his breathing grow ragged? Declan imagined it a thousand times over – taking Michael apart, piece by piece, until the boy was no more than a panting, writhing wreck.

But he’d be forceful. That much Declan knew. He’d seen the boy with his woman – that slim Irish waif of a girl. Michael led by experience. But he’d have no experience with Declan, would he? He’d be lost. Gasping against Declan’s neck—thrusting against his thigh, panting in his ear…

But he’d be forceful. Taking his pleasure. Writhing under Declan’s hands, moaning as he chased his own end, trusting Declan to find his. Declan had taught him what he’d known of the frontier. And he would teach him more still. He would fuck him, slowly, until Michael could bear no more, desperate for release.

Desperate. That was the word Declan rolled over his tongue again and again. Desperate. What would Michael look like desperate? Flushed, panting, glistening with sweat? Breath stale, swallowing hard, thighs trembling… Guttural sounds punched from his lungs, eyes half-open but his gaze fixed on Declan.

Declan’s frame would dwarf Michael – he knew that…. And couldn’t help but imagine it.

Michael, small but strong, would thrust against him. Declan could nearly feel the faint ghost of his thighs clench his waist. The boy—his boy—would choke out a moan, jerking their hips together. Declan would let Michael maintain control for a while, but then, unable to resist, he would flip the tables. He would shove Michael against the closest wall, using his hard-earned muscles to hold him there. He would jerk down Michael’s trousers, thrusting against the soft but slowly muscled expanse of Michael’s stomach. He’d make Michael lavish his palm, wetting it to the touch – or he’d join Michael’s endeavor, slicking his hand with spit, while worrying Michael’s lip with his teeth. He’d dissolve Michael to a babbling mess, before finally— _finally_ —grasping their cocks together in one massive hand—jerking them off together, slick and hot and tight and---

Michael would come first – Declan would make sure of it—and watching Michael…

They’d be satiated. Boneless. But Declan would kiss Michael still – deep, bruising, and possessive. Fuck that Irish lass – once Declan had Michael, there’d be no return. Declan would fight and die for Michael – god knows why.

Declan would suck Michael’s release from his fingers – a promise of something more, something deeper. Michael would pant horribly, as if he’d run for his life. And Declan would kiss him deeply – burning lips and slick tongue – and Michael would pant further still, until his cock hardened against Declan once more – and Declan would spend all his energy and strength into fingering Michael open, into sucking him off, into devolving the boy to a shuddering and overstimulated mess.

Only then. Only then would Declan fuck him. Truly.

His cock thrust deep—Michael unable to form any words with his clever fucking mouth.

Declan would fuck him hard. Deep. Until Michael babbled. Until his deep groans shifted to whining pants, chasing after a high that Irish-lass could never provide. Declan would own Michael – but of course, Michael already owned Declan… even if the lad barely knew it.

He owned Declan’s breath, his sweat, his tears. Declan would fuck into Michael’s heat, desperate to bring him pleasure. He’d tongue at Michael’s chest, fingers pinching and tormenting his nipples – he’d nibble at Michael’s throat, worrying his scruff with dedicated and sharp teeth. He’d fuck Michael’s mouth with his tongue, until the boy moaned around him, shuddering and undone.

And Declan would fuck him deeper still – he knew of that place in a man that would bring pleasure. He knew where to thrust his fingers, how to angle his hips. He’d make Michael come undone – wholly, completely—before he’d lose himself in Michael’s tight warmth.

The English may call him a savage, but Declan would be damned if he came before his lover.

He would undo Michael if it took his final breath.

The boy would seize—clench around him—so tight, too tight.

Declan would fuck him through it, make Michael’s mind go blank with bliss.

Because Michael owned his heart.

Suddenly. Irrevocably.

“No. Let him speak,” Declan said, ignoring his first in command. “Let him speak.”

And from that moment on, Michael leeched his heart. Unknowingly of course – the fucker still longed for his Irish girlfriend.

But Declan remained taken, horribly, permanently.

To the point where he thought Michael was a hallucination as Lord Benton administered his torture.

But Michael saved him. In more ways than one.

Michael cared for his bruised and broken body, and Declan only wished he could’ve reciprocated in turn.

Declan couldn’t remember much after that point. His nightmares were fueled with images of Lord Benton and the broken body of his own wife… and strangely… the broken body of Michael.

Declan awoke on the cold, muddy banks of the Canadian highland. Coarse grass ripped from his wounds as he hoisted himself to his feet. He groaned, exhausted, but alive.

His Michael was out there. His Michael saved him.

And Declan would reclaim his Michael at any cost.


End file.
